Eulogy
by Hrlyqin
Summary: Part III in the Dearest series. After a decade, Mycroft is coming home to his family, but what if his family isn't willing to welcome him with open arms? Will Jamie accept his help when finds himself in over his head?
1. Chapter 1

**Eulogy**

**A Sherlock fanfiction for all my Constant Readers**

**by hrlyqin**

_Jamie, _

_I think that I can finally say, albeit with a heavy heart, that I have finished putting all of Mary's last affairs in order. I took the liberty of selecting some items that I thought might have sentimental value to you, they are arriving via post. Most of her other personal things are in storage so please let me know if there is anything you think you could make use of. _

_I have also closed up the house in Jukkasjarvi. I had planned to stay but there are too many memories right now, it was like living with her ghost. After much consideration, I think the best thing for me is to return to London and the arms of my family. I have taken my time to grieve and would like to get on with the business of finding my place in the world again, so I thought, where better to start than the streets that I know like the back of my hand? I will be in town no later than Friday the 18th. I look forward to seeing you, your mother and of course your Uncle. Until then, know that I remain, _

_Your Loving Father,_

_M._

Jamie scrolled through the email one more time before closing it and then glowered at the now blank screen as if the computer itself had offended him instead of his father's trite emotional ramblings. His loving father, right. Finding his place in the world, whatever. He hoped that Mycroft didn't expect some sort of gilt-edge reunion where Mum and he and him would all have tea together and sob a bit then reflect about how funny life was. But the sad sack bastard was probably expecting that exactly.

Jamie could remember, distantly, that Mycroft Holmes had once been a feared and respected figure, someone his mother spoke about with reverent admiration and even his dad had begrudgingly had to give credit to. His mind was stuffed with memories of Mycroft at his computer or on his phone, commanding the world to march when he said so, always taking the time to tell Jamie how much he loved him, valued him and wanted him, even though pretty much from the moment he had been born their family had been spectacularly fucked up. When Mom and Dad had gone off the rails, Mycroft had been there to assure Jamie that no matter what they thought of each other, all these adults loved him profoundly. He would never need to fear being left out in the cold.

Then his Dad died. He had been shuffled back and forth from Mom to Mycroft too many times for him to count, he had been uprooted constantly by his mother moving here or there, he had lost his Aunt Harry and tried to deal with the lack of emotion he felt about it, oh and there was that small business of a crime lord kidnapping him, trying to kill everyone he cared about and then getting tossed off the side of a waterfall. What did Mycroft do at the end of all of this when Jamie needed him the most? He had taken off with his fucking nurse, who, granted, was nice and got along with Jamie and blah blah blah, but still, he ran off with the help and thought that video chat and postcards where going to take the place of a male father figure in his life.

So yeah, Father could keep his happy family reunion chatter to his fucking self.

Jamie came out of his scowling long enough to notice the silence that had fallen over the rest of the room. He looked around to see the teacher and other students all looking at him expectantly. Shit, what had he missed?

"Mr. Watson, can you please favour us with the solution to the problem on the board?" Mrs. Hill asked. It was clearly not the first time she had asked the question, but she was being nice and repeating it so she could have the fun of watching his scramble for the answer.

Clearly, Jamie wasn't the only one not paying attention during lessons. If the teacher had been as attentive as she expected her students to be, she'd know Jamie never had to guess. At sixteen, he was probably better than most university math students and he didn't even need to try. So she could try to knock him down a peg all she liked, but it wouldn't work.

He gave a cursory glance at the numbers and symbols on the white board and answered, "42."

He kept paying attention long enough to see Mrs. Hill get a look on her face like she needed a root canal and then he went back to playing on his computer, avoiding the email this time.

After classes were out for the day, Jamie was supposed to head directly to his biweekly appointment with the newest in a long succession of psychiatrists, but he somehow didn't really think that would be too helpful today, so he blew it off. "Jamie, you seem irritated today." he muttered to himself as he marched out onto the sidewalk, imitating the high nasal voice of the doctor. "Well you see Doc, my father has this idea that he's going to pop up and I'm going to be six again and therefore, give a shit." He paused in his steps to light up a cig and then continued. "But since I don't see any blue phone boxes around here, I think he's going to be disappointed."

"Now Jamie," he continued on in the doc's voice, "don't you think your father deserves a chance?"

Angrily, he dragged smoke in to his lungs before he finished the conversation. "That's the problem, he's had nothing but chances."

He shook his head and tried to put it out of his mind until he got to Uncle Sherlock's. It didn't take long for a distraction to present itself.

"Excuse me!" he heard someone calling frantically behind him. "Excuse me...scuse me!"

He turned and waited long enough for his pursuer to catch up with him. A girl from his class. New girl. French mother. Father was a tailor by trade. She had lost a lot of weight recently, no doubt in an attempt to be more accepted at her new school, and tended to favor her left foot when she walked. She had clearly chosen to study maths as he had but had a fondness for poetry and art, judging by the backpack she owned. Also, she was miserable at running seeing as how she struggled to catch her breath once she stood next to him. Other than that, he hadn't really noticed her.

"Thanks," she huffed, "for slowing down."

"I didn't want you to pass out." he said, dropping ash next to their feet. Why was she chasing after him?

"I just..." pause, huff, breath, "I wanted to introduce myself."

"You could have done that tomorrow without risking oxygen deprivation."

She took a few more deep draws of air and then straightened up and after a moment, was able to smile at him and talk normally. Or as normally as women ever did. "I'm Holly Lightner."

"Jamie Watson. Now we're introduced. So, have a nice day." He started walking again.

She followed after him, having to take quick steps to match his pace. "Aren't you- I mean," she hesitated, reminding Jamie strongly of his mother in her stammering, "You're John Watson's son, right?"

"Stepson." he corrected. Now he knew what this was about at least.

"Oh I just love his stories, the stories they made out of his diary, I mean. I've read them all, but I think the Geek Interpreter or maybe Silver Blaze are my favorites. It's just so interesting, how Holmes and Watson could take the smallest little things and figure out everything from them, I mean, it's like a superpower or something. Your father was brilliant, really brilliant. I heard your name and I thought that it was you, I read that article about you and your Mom in The Strand a few years ago, but I couldn't really believe it. I actually can't believe I'm talking to you right now."

"So..you're...a...fan?" he asked carefully, enunciating every word clearly.

"The biggest." she said, visibly gushing over it. "Just like, the very biggest."

This was one of those times that Jamie painfully felt the strangeness of his upbringing. He knew how Sherlock, Mom and both of his father figures would have wanted him to treat this girl. To pick any one way was to feel like he would be disappointing the rest of them. It was like having four consciouses... well, three and a devil anyway. There was also the fifth voice, not really his own, but the one that he usually wanted to listen to, it would always pick the cruelest option available. His dark side. The reason for all the psychiatrists and that one incident he didn't like to chat about. It's impulse, his impulse, was to tell this sick bird exactly what he thought of people who got off on stories about murderers and rapists and criminals and ask her what the fuck was wrong in her life that made her think it was a good idea to just prance up to people to gossip about their dead parents.

But making her cry wasn't going to make him feel any better. It'd probably just make him feel worse later. So he tried to be nice, if not exactly encouraging. "That's, uh, good to know and it's nice to meet you and all but I've got this thing and I'm going to be later, so I'll see you around?" he said, backing away from her while he talked.

"Yeah!" she answered back enthusiastically. "Sure. I'll see you in class!"

His bizarre encounter with Holly Lightner gave him much to mull over on his way to Sherlock's, so much so that he avoided thinking about his father almost entirely, but the minute he knocked on the door the anger came surging right back up in him. He didn't wait for an answer before going up into the apartment and snatching an apple from the kitchen before looking for any of the residents.

"Uncle Sherlock?" he called out. "Uncle Pierce?"

Sherlock was seated in front of the chess board in the living room. He thought his brand new stalker would like, totally freak out if she could be here right now, facing the master detective. Jamie was used to that at least, people tended to get flustered around Sherlock. He made it his business to be smarter than anyone else in the room and time and time again, he proved that he was. He also knew that both sexes found Sherlock attractive and sort of threw themselves at his feet. He was still at his age darkly and archly pretty, kept from being feminine only by the cold and superior way in which he carried himself. The charisma of Sherlock was made even stranger by the fact that Sherlock had a live-in lover that he had been with for years, took out in public and was not especially tender or even nice towards. But people still flocked to him. Sometimes, Jamie envied it but mostly, he was glad he didn't have to deal with that kind of celebrity.

"Hardly a celebrity." Sherlock said as he studied the board. It was the same game they had been chipping away at for two months.

"What? I didn't say anything."

"But you were thinking on it, reflecting about how people are drawn to me despite of my character flaws." Sherlock determined quick perfectly before moving a pawn.

"I met a fan of yours." Jamie replied.

"Did she try to blow you up?"

"Um...no." he answered, moving a knight.

"Oh, good then. That's progress. Who was it?"

"Just some girl in my class." Jamie shrugged.

"And you're upset about this, although not as upset as you are about something else."

"Have you heard from Mycroft?"

Sherlock paused, his movements frozen. "Why?"

"He's coming to town, apparently. He wants us all to be one big happy family again."

Sherlock snorted. "No, he has not contacted me. He is clearly trying to use the element of surprise, or taking it for granted that you and I are close and you would tell me."

"Of course we're close, it's not like I have an actual father around or anything."

"And this is why you are not at Dr. Arrington's."

"Fuck him. I can't deal with that bullshit today."

Sherlock was silent while plotting out his next move. Perhaps five minutes passed before he spoke again. "You know how much I disapprove of psychiatric medicine. I do not think it benefits society for adults to be able to blame their personality problems on bad parenting or lack of breastfeeding and thus absolve themselves of all responsibility for their flaws. However, the courts determined that you are in need of care and should you continue to show such disregard for their decision, you may find yourself in detention for your crimes."

"So?"

"Then they would undoubtedly blame me, and I do not need the hassle."

"Fine. I'll go next time."

"Does your mother know that you're here?" Sherlock questioned next, although he knew the answer.

"No, she's probably busy finding something lacy and low cut."

Sherlock sighed and rubbed his temple. "You **are** upset about this, aren't you?"

"Yeah I thought we kind of already went through that. Check."

There was a quick flurry of moves back and forth before attention was drawn from the game back to the bigger problem before them. "Sometimes," Sherlock said, "I wish that you were still a child. Children are by far and large easier to explain things to."

"Speak slowly and use small words then."

"Your Father..." Sherlock began, "Mycroft is an extremely complicated person. He claims he has spent the greater part of his life trying to understand me and I find him just as inscrutable. If we did not so readily carry the traits of our parents, I would be certain that one of us was adopted. He is also an arrogant, meddling, simpering bureaucrat, perfectly willing to sign off on other people doing the actual work and taking the actual risk. He could rival me, if he wanted to, if he tried very very hard to, in mental prowess and reputation, but he would rather take the easier route. Since his retirement, he has become even worse, preaching a new found zen lifestyle and trying to cram the same serenity down the throats of anyone else who happens to be in the vicinity, lecturing us all about our terrible vices and obsessions. Mycroft could sit down with the greatest minds and rulers in all of history and still think that he was better than any of them."

"I know all this, that's why I'm bloody distressed about him wanting to play parent again."

"I am only trying to impress upon you that there is no love lost between my brother and I."

"Okay."

"I loathe Mycroft, and even though I am loathe to defend him... he loves you, Jamie. For all his professional triumph, there has never been a single decision in his personal life that he has made well, including the choice to leave Britain so many years ago. But he did not do it to abandon you."

"Funny how it worked out that he did exactly that, though."

Sherlock sighed again. "That is all I am going to say about it."

"Fine."

"When did he say he was coming?"

"Friday."

"Shit. You don't have a cigarette, do you?"


	2. Chapter 2

**Eulogy – Chapter 2**

**A Sherlock fanfiction for all my Constant Readers**

**by hrlyqin**

The sky had grown the sickly gray of near dark by the time that Sherlock escorted Jamie home. Few words passed between them within the confines of the car, just as few words had been spoken while they played endless rounds of chess. They communicated their disappointment, frustration and worry over Mycroft's impending arrival in a shorthand of gestures, glances and body language expressing things neither cared to say aloud. Jamie fiddled endlessly with his jacket buttons, the radio dials and anything within his reach. Sherlock drummed his fingers along the steering wheel in an endless rhythm. Both of them might as well have been screaming.

Sherlock was the first to get out of the car and went round to open Jamie's door. They made eye contact as the younger man got out that closed the subject for now. After the long silence, Molly flying out of the house and starting to yell was a jarring adjustment. It took Jamie time to tune in to her and by the time he did, she was saying something along the lines of "...dead in a gutter or run away and I called Doctor Arrington, which is a good thing because I did or it would be on your record, or in your file, or however it works, but I lied! For you! I said you were deathly ill! Not skipping out because my son is a good boy and he wouldn't do that and..."

She kept talking, but once Jamie had gotten the gist, he simply tuned her back out and went inside to get something out of the fridge. Sandwich in hand, he escaped to his room and the comforts of loud music blaring while leaving the adults to deal with it.

He didn't hear it, but she did stop as she watched him shut her out and wander in to the house. Her mouth clamped shut with an almost audible clack until he disappeared from sight, then she turned her head back to focus in on a new but familiar target. "And I might have known you had something to do with this!"

Sherlock shrugged, his body as used to the gesture as it was to his favorite coat. "Yes. I let him inside. It was horrible of me. I should have let him walk home so he could be abducted by..." he paused to think and finished with "radical politically active university students."

Her head tilted and her mouth quirked sideways. "You're not funny, and you shouldn't encourage him."

Then Molly's manners got the better of her and she asked Sherlock if he wouldn't like something to drink.

"Yes," he replied, "However..." He was now fairly gasping for a cigarette. He made a sort of smoking gesture with his hand and Molly seemed to understand.

"Oh, I see. I'll bring it out onto the back porch."

Sherlock went around to the back yard whilst Molly got tea or...well, tea for him. He dug into his pocket and found his cigarettes, then lit one and breathed inward with exquisite relish. The addictive pleasures of smoking really had few parallels. He should know, he'd done tests. Breathing in deeply, he looked at the deposits of leaves and odd assortment of family items scattered around him. It was very peaceful, back here, he realized. Quiet. With nothing but the echo of Jamie's music blaring in his room, Sherlock could almost practically hear himself thinking. It made him feel...strangely not alone.

He had once asked Molly, probably not as tactfully as anyone else would have, why she didn't move away. It had surely occurred to her. She could find work, live more cheaply and raise her children in an environment more suited to their upbringing. If one wanted to be sentimental, it could even be said that she could have escaped from all the memories and pain that remaining here must have brought her. Her answer, he remembered, had been an instance of brilliance that showed how intuitive Molly truly was underneath all of her ruffles.

"Because then John couldn't come with me." was what she had said. He had pondered that answer a very long time. It distressed him to admit it, but he ultimately felt he understood her perfectly. There were places around London, greasy Chinese restaurants, late night cafes and alley haunts where Sherlock truly felt John could have been standing next to him again. This house was one of those places. Sitting here, he could all but smell the man and it made him feel sick in his heart with longing. But the pain of the moment was worth the reward.

His reverie was interrupted by Molly with the tea. He thought about asking her how she would ever handle the instance of a guest who didn't care for the beverage, but he didn't want to frighten her. She spoke first, calmer now and much more...Mollyesque, saying to him, "Thank you for making sure he got home alright."

"It was nothing."

"He heard about Mycroft coming home, I guess. He must be upset, that's all." She nodded, trying to convince herself more than him perhaps.

"He is indeed upset." Sherlock confirmed.

She rubbed her arms with her hands and since it was not overly chilly outside, Sherlock took it for what it was, a nervous gesture. He waited and soon enough, Molly hesitantly began speaking again. "Sherlock...I'm worried about him. Has he said anything, I mean, besides that he's angry that Mycroft is coming home? Has he told you anything?"

"What would he tell me?" he asked, blowing smoke.

"More than he would tell me. He talks to you, and even if he doesn't, you could tell, if something was wrong, right?"

"You are being vague." he said, speaking the last word like a curse. "Out with it already."

"I just," she glanced up at Jamie's window, shut and sealed, "I wonder sometimes if he knows the truth, about Jim. I know, he said he doesn't remember anything from when Jim took him, not anything he might have said, and he wouldn't hate Mycroft so much if he thought they weren't actually related, but it's just, I mean, I just...Sherlock, sometimes I swear he **knows**, and I imagine how angry he must be, and that he is going to do something terrible because of it. That business last year, with his teacher, what if that was just the start? What if he is...you know, becoming like him? What if he is going to turn out the same way no matter how much I love him or what I do? I keeps me up at night! I mean, I can't sleep \half worrying that my boy is hurting and angry and then the other half worrying that he might do something to me, or even to Carrie. His doctor won't tell me anything. All I get from Jamie is that he's fine, school was fine, he's doing fine, everything is fine and what's for dinner? But he talks to you, and he respects you, so maybe he said something to you, or hinted something? You'd tell me, wouldn't you? You wouldn't just let it...fester, to see what would happen? Right?...Oh god you would, that's right, what am I thinking? You used to microwave mice skulls. Something brewing under your nose would be like Christmas for you. That's why you got involved in the first place, helping me out, letting Mycroft help me out when I was in trouble, it was because you were curious and now, I mean, this might be just fascinating to -"

Sherlock stopped her increasingly hysterical rambling by raising his hand, palm out, in front of her in a universal gesture for 'stop'. He held it there in front of her now closed mouth and wide eyes while he sucked the last two drags off his cigarette and put it out in the little glass ashtray she kept back there for when he popped by. He then examined the fingernails on his hand and rolled his neck to loosen the muscles a few times, keeping her in suspension, until he was ready to continue.

"Are you quite finished, or should I let you go on? Good, you're finished." He stopped and arched an eyebrow at her mercilessly. "I will ignore your speculations on my scientific curiosity. What I find interesting is not, and never has been, any of your business. I will not be offended by your remarks. Witness me, in my glory, unoffended. Instead I shall concentrate on the things preying more prominently on your mind. Jamie is not a sociopath. I've watched him closely and believe me, **I would** know. He does not have the makings of a brilliant criminal mastermind. He is, however, an angry, intelligent man with too much time of his hands and too few outlets for his mental prowess and creativity. In other words, he is a teenager. I would frankly be more worried if he seemed perfectly happy and well adjusted, then we would know we were in trouble."

She nodded, looking at her feet. "So you think I'm being silly then?"

"Perpetually." He sighed and patted her on the shoulder. "But I will keep my eye on him, or two if they are free. He will know he can talk to me if something troubles him. I won't let anything happen to him, and I won't let him do anything overly foolish."

"Do you promise?" she asked of him, sounding very childlike.

"Of course." The emotion...the absolute stink of family...was now so thick in the air it was nearly choking him, so he tried to change the subject. "How is the kitten?"

Molly brightened a little bit and understood that the subject was now closed. Pierce had insisted on giving Molly, Carrie and Jamie pick of the last litter and after much squabbling among themselves, they had emerged with a curious calico cat. "Growing like a weed. Carrie's named him Simba."

"Sim...ba." he said slowly.

"You know, like the Lion K-."

"Yes, like The Lion King, I got that. I am sure that makes the cat feel very masculine indeed."

Molly paused and then laughed, although she was not really sure why she was laughing. Sherlock watched her, Molly with her short hair and the lines around her mouth and eyes from too much expression, and he felt misery. Not because of Molly, not exactly, but because he had spoke the truth to her. He would look out for Jamie, he always did, he even tried to look after Molly, as much as she would let him. Not just because of John. No. Somewhere in the stretch of time after Mycroft had gone dog sledding into the sunset with his criminal paramour, Sherlock had realized something. He believed it had been at Carrie's sixth birthday party when he and Jamie had been making origami animals for her (he had been crafting an elephant, he remembered) when he suddenly realized that instead of the painful, hurtful and irritating relationship he had with Mycroft and had enjoyed with his parents, among these people, dull as they sometimes were, pedestrian and bland as their lives could be, he felt accepted. Cared for, even. Silly Molly, Jamie of his dark moods and even Carrie, who he related to not in the least, had become more family to him than Mycroft. For a very long time, he and Molly would merely trade barbs and icy hellos, just after John died, but like family does, they had settled in with each other again. Jamie depended on him for so much, even though Sherlock had never asked for the responsibility. His boyfriend gave them kittens. This was his family.

But now his very real family, his blood, was coming to stir everything asunder. Although he knew on some deep level he cared for Mycroft in some way, he found himself slightly worried and more than a little angry for the damage he might do to their carefully crafted little world. He wouldn't intend to, no, Mycroft never did, but in his attempt to wedge himself back in to their lives, real damage could happen.

But it would not. Not if Sherlock could help it.


	3. Chapter 3

**Eulogy – Chapter 3**

**A Sherlock fanfiction for all my Constant Readers**

**by hrlyqin**

"Sherlock." Mycroft intoned carefully as he sipped his sparkling seltzer water, "If I didn't know better, I would say you were angry with me."

"Angry? Why in the world would I be angry, My. Croft?" Sherlock bit off and chewed each of the syllables of his brother's name separately, then spat them back at him. A few people at the tables closest to them in the restaurant turned their heads to stare.

"I have positively no idea." Mycroft smiled blandly. "You get to spend your evening in the fine company of your brother, who you have not seen face to face in years, enjoying a splendid meal that you will not have to pay for, in perfectly pleasant company." He nodded to Pierce, who wanted nothing more than to dive under the table and take cover until dinner was over. "Could it be the fact that Molly and Jamie are running late? Well, I assure you that it upsets me as well, but I learned many years ago that they way a woman makes sure she is appreciated is to make sure everyone is waiting on her arrival. Mary did the same thing."

Sherlock huffed, air hissing through his nostrils. Pierce tried putting his hand, very gently, atop Sherlock's but it did nothing to calm him. The gesture did not go unnoticed by Mycroft, who chided Pierce politely. "It's fine. Let him have his... hissy fit."

At that, Sherlock slammed his own drink on the table, now drawing stares from more than just a few other patrons. "**SO**," said Pierce, a trifle too loudly, "how was your flight, Mycroft? Are your arms tired?" He laughed a little bit, then looked between the two brothers, chuckling, "Because he flew, you see?" He laughed again, weakly.

Both men simply glanced at him before going back to staring down each other. There remained a silent tension hanging in the air like a low fog for the next four minutes and twelve seconds, broken only be Pierce making what could only be described as pained pleading noises in Sherlock's direction and eventually by the arrival of the widow Watson.

"Molly! Hello." Pierce was the first to his feet, all but melting in to a grateful puddle at Molly's feet. She looked confused, then understanding at his distress, and then she didn't look at him at all. Her eyes were drawn to Mycroft rising slowly with the stately manner of a king greeting a loyal subject.

"Molly. It has truly been far too long." he said simply. If there was any ire or irritation remaining from his spat with Sherlock, no one could have noticed it in that moment. The look on his face was one that was all but alien to those around the table.

He looked happy.

It was, frankly, putting Sherlock off.

True to Jamie's worst fears, Molly had spent the entire afternoon going through her closet and despairing that she didn't have a festive or a sexy section in it to speak of. Every blouse was tried on and dismissed as too matronly. Her hemlines were all wrong. Her dresses all belonged at parent-teacher meetings. There was not a single heel she owned that rose above two inches.

It was not as if she were dressing up for Mycroft, she told herself. She just wanted to look nice. Mycroft were certainly be dressed with such care, he always had been, when he was at his best. She remembered in a flurry the myriad of suit coats, pressed shirts, carefully coordinated neck ties and perfectly selected cufflinks she had seen him in over the years. Some of them bloody, yes, or ripped, but he just always made an effort to look...dashing, she guessed, and Sherlock would not allow himself to be outshone, so really, she was just doing this so she wouldn't stick out. That was all.

But it wasn't as if there would be anything inappropriate about her wanting to dress up **for** Mycroft. They were both single. Maybe Mycroft hadn't been single for very long, but it wasn't as if it would be indecent. It wasn't as if they were strangers, or she was out trolling some singles website. She didn't want to look like a trollop, she just wanted to look nice, and there was absolutely nothing wrong with a single lady of a certain age wanting to loo nice for a single man she might have known for a long time, shared a false pact of parenthood with, seen at his worse, originally been in love with his brother just a little bit and had always respected like some sort of deity but only have ever had platonic feelings towards...even if it may have made her life infinitely easier or infinitely more complicated, she wasn't even sure, just infinitely something more if in that brief moment where it was possible, she had made some sort of move, or he had made some sort of move...not that she would have traded her time with John, her John for anything, but now that she was older she could only think back to being younger and wonder and...

She just wanted to look nice, that was all. She happened not to own anything really of the right brand of nice, but she could fix that. She had been sitting on her bed in her robe texting Tosh about borrowing something sexy and /or festive when she noticed Jamie in the doorway. She gave a start and made sure the robe was covering everything in the right places. "Oh dearest, you scared me. Why aren't you dressed yet?"

"Because the reservations aren't for another..." he checked his watch "...three hours, Mum."

"Right, of course. Silly. But you should pick something out, and maybe wash your hair. And if you could be an angel and make sure Carrie gets everything packed up for her sleepover."

"Packed. Blue bunny slippers. Magic pillow."

"Oh." She looked relieved. "Thank you sweetie." She got off the bed and inspected his hair, which really did need to be washed, before kissing him on the cheek. Predictably, Jamie acted like she had just spat cholera all over him and started making a face.

"Mum, stop, please." He rubbed his cheek clean. "So you're really excited about Father coming back."

"It's just going to be nice to see him. I'm sure he's going to want to spend all his time with you though. He can help with those university applications."

"Um, yeah, about that," he stopped talking, looked at his feet and shrugged a little even though his hands were deep in his pockets.

"Jamie." Molly said, using what she thought of it as the 'angry mummy voice'.

"I thought maybe I could skip out on tonight, I've got homework. I'm working on his new math thing and it's really ridiculously complicated."

"**Jamie**."

"Come on, it's not like I **need** to be there. You're going to get all dolled up and want to be hanging all over him and that's not going to make me want to eat anything, sorry Mum, and Uncle Sherlock is just going to spend the whole time glaring and insulting everyone and Uncle Pierce is going to spend the whole time making bad jokes no one will laugh at. It's not like I'm be missed."

"**Jamie Joshua Watson!**" she yelled.

He winced. "Look, I don't want to go and you can't make me."

"Oh, I can make you, young man."

"No, I know you could. Come on Mum...I'll see Father all the time, he's going to be around more, I just don't want to go and make a huge deal out of it by stuffing my face in some restaurant. I don't mean it like that. I have a date." he added as one last desperate Hail Mary pass.

Molly's face, which had been screwing up in to an ugly shade of peach, instantly cleared. "You do?"

"Yep." He nodded frantically. "Yep. Remember that girl I told you was following me about after school the other day?"

"Oh yes, the nice one."

"Right, the nice one, so I told her we could hang out tonight and I didn't even think about it being the big dinner but if Father's going to have you and everyone else I thought maybe I could just see him later." Another shrug.

"Oh sweetie, of course. I'm sure he'll understand. But still, really, wash your hair."

So now Molly found herself arriving alone to dinner, dressed in something Tosh let her borrow that nearly fit her correctly, smiling like a shy little fool and feeling...so many complicated things, big things that didn't even have words and very quiet things then other things that were ugly snarls and pangs of guilt (_He was happily married for years so what makes you think he cares how you look at all? What would John think of you fawning all over Mycroft?_)...but for about a second all those things came together in this perfect shining moment.

Sherlock was coughing, loudly, she noticed, at first distantly. She turned her head with effort to him but could not understand the words he was saying so he repeated himself. "Where is Jamie?"

"Oh." She looked apologetic as she took her seat. "He had a date."

"A date? With the fan?"

"I think so, yes. The girl from school. The nice one." she added.

"Jamie has a fan?" Mycroft asked, directing his question to Sherlock but still looking at Molly.

"I am afraid so."

"Has anyone done a background check?"

.

.

.

The answer to Mycroft's question was no, no one had as of yet done one. Pierce had not because Sherlock hadn't asked him to, which he would have if he wanted it done (well, asked is a vague term). Mycroft because of course he hadn't known but maybe he could make some calls, he still knew people after all. Sherlock had not because he knew that if he dug hard enough, he would find something, and that he would be compelled to tell Jamie whatever unpleasant little slight he may uncover and that might spoil something. He didn't admit anything like that to himself though, no, he told himself the reason was that he just couldn't be bothered right now. Jamie hadn't done any spying because whatever he might find out about Holly, there was worse she could find out about him.

He had done some asking around. Just to his mates. One of the smarter ones made some snide remark about the psychology of him chatting up a sweet, nervous girl named H_olly _but he had wound up with a fat lip and Jamie probably couldn't really count on him as a mate anymore. Everybody seemed to say the same thing. Nice. Smart. Maybe a little bit boring, but Jamie was convinced there had to be more to her, otherwise would she have really followed him to say she liked his Dad's books?

Besides, calling her up and asking her if she'd like to come around and see John Watson's study gave him an excellent excuse to miss dinner without actually having to lie about it. He could have lied. He could have done it very well. It was just so much work though.

He had told her to come over about an hour after Mom left to drop off Carrie then meet Mycroft. He had decidedly not washed his hair, but he had picked up a little and made himself moderately presentable. He was thankful for the millionth time that he didn't really take after his father or his Mum but looked more like Sherlock than anyone. If you had to pick someone if his family to look like, it wasn't a bad pick. He knew that he looked good and that was reinforced when he opened the door for Holly and she had trouble saying hello to him.

"Hey." he said for her. "Come in." He turned around and let her follow. They stopped at the kitchen to mix some soda up with the Crown Royal he kept in his sock drawer, then he took her to the back of the house where Molly kept John's 'study' with his papers and medical books and so on.

Like a shrine, Jamie had often though, or an attic to shove stuff out of the way. He could never decide which. Whatever he thought of it (he was used to seeing it, he guessed), Holly was obviously in some sort of seventh heaven. He had to tell her she had leave to look around or even touch things in she wanted. He sat down on the sofa and let her flit around reading book titles.

"This is so cool." she said finally.

"Is it?"

"Probably not to you but...I've read every single story, I told you. Every single one. This!" she seized upon a small musical instrument set on a bookcase. "Is this...is this _The Beryl Cornet_?"

"You mean the one from The Beryl Cornet?"

She nodded eagerly and when Jamie nodded, she chirped happily and then set it back down. Jamie drank his drink and watched her make several other discoveries. She was just so...excited, it was weird to him. Like watching a performance almost. People had approached him and Mum before, wanting to know about the books and the Great Doctor Watson, but this was the first time he had seen someone go so nutty to root around Dad's things. She would ask if this was the thing from this time or that story and he would confirm, then she was on to the next. It went on until he noticed his glass was empty and she finally sat down next to him.

"Thank you so so so so much for letting me see all this stuff. This is literally just like, the neatest thing ever." She gave him a kiss on the cheek and although it was fleeting and nothing more than giddiness, the sensation was entirely different from Molly's kiss on the cheek earlier. "Listen to me, you must think I'm nutty."

"No." he said slowly, "Not...nutty really, just..."

"Excited? Giddy? Stupid? Sorry. I mean you probably think the only reason I came over was to raid the treasure room."

He laughed at that. "The treasure room?"

"You know."

"So there's another reason then?"

"There might be." She tried to adapt his nonchalant shrug but didn't do it nearly so well as he did. "I asked around about you."

"What did you hear?" He was calm, he would remain calm.

"That you don't waste your time with you know...bullshit, you're sort of scary smart. You don't really hang around with a lot of people...that, um, you got in to some trouble."

"Is that what they said, some trouble?" He was trying to stay calm.

"Well, nobody seemed to really know what exactly, but nobody said they knew you very well, they didn't go to school with you before or anything. What did you do?" she dropped the question like a brick then immediately tried to take it back. "Never mind. It doesn't matter, honestly. You seem really nice to me, so I'm sure whatever it was it's not important."

"If it's not important than why did you say anything at all?" He sat up, not so comfortable or idle anymore.

"If I didn't say anything, then you'd think it was really important to me because I was trying not to bring it up." she said, sounding a little bit frantic. "But it isn't, really."

"So you don't care at all?" It sounded like an accusation.

"No." she shook her head and he could see that she was nervous. Was he overreacting? Was he not reacting enough? It was so hard to tell sometimes what you were supposed to do or supposed to feel. What would Sherlock do? Or Dad? Or Father? What would someone normal do?

He didn't know and suddenly the room was too small. He escaped to the bathroom, muttering some excuse, and locked himself inside. A splash of water to the face. Deep breaths. He couldn't seem to think straight and so he just focused on breathing. In. Out. In. Out. He closed his eyes and he saw red until it started fading away. He felt overheated until he could concentrate and realize he was in a cold sweat. His mind randomly grabbed at something (the periodic table) to recite and recite until he felt calm again. He wasn't sure how long passed but he didn't leave the restroom until it felt safe too.

Safe from what he didn't know, but he didn't feel like taking the risk.

He had expected her to have left but he found Holly sitting on the sofa still, worrying over her shoe laces. "Um...sorry, about that." he said sincerely.

"It's fine." She was stiff now, cooler to him maybe, or maybe he was just paranoid, but she was not spinning on top of the world anymore, that was for sure. "I didn't mean to bring anything up."

"No, it's not you. I just get...frustrated, sometimes. Everyone does, but not like me. It's not your fault at all."

"Oh." She seemed to think about that. "Are you okay now?"

"Yeah." He sat down again and when she didn't jump away, he just tried to relax. But they weren't talking anymore now. He had ruined it all. When the pressure of that became too great on him, he blurted out. "I hurt someone."

"What?"

"That's what I did, what I got in trouble for. I lost my temper."

"And you hurt someone?"

"I didn't mean to."

"Was it a...a girlfriend?"

"What?" He couldn't process that and he had to run his mind around what she meant, then when he got it he made a face. "No. I wouldn't do **that.** It was a teacher, it was just some stupid thing."

"You don't need to explain."

But now that he had started, he couldn't seem to stop. "It was my literature class. The only thing I don't do well in. Ironic, right? I'm not stupid though. I was studying my ass off. Did extra work. But nothing was good enough for this jag off. He just...didn't fucking like me. I didn't do anything to him but he wanted to make me miserable. I was going to pass that stupid fucking class if it was the last thing I did, just to rub it in his face. Holly, I mean it, I did everything. But this...this...this guy, he wasn't going to pass me. He kept me late one day to tell me that I wasn't so smart after all, maybe I wasn't twelfth year material, then he lays in to me about how disappointed my dad would be that I hadn't applied myself, him the great author." Jamie became aware he was clenching and unclenching his fists. "That's when I got it, that this wasn't about me at all, it was something about my dad and Uncle Sherlock. I could have been a fucking genius and he'd had still had this hard on for me. He said something, I don't even remember what, and I just lost it."

"You hurt him."

"I don't remember. I mean, I did, but I don't remember doing it. One minute he's screaming in my face, then next thing some fuckers I don't even know are pulling me away, and there's blood on my hands, and he's on the floor. He said I had hit him till he fell, then I started kicking him."

"But he...he said all those horrible things." Holly interrupted. She was quickly loyal for some reason, trying to make excuses for him. Jamie didn't even look at her, he was staring off in to space.

"So I got called up to the courts, and now I have to see a therapist and take all these meds and my Mum doesn't half trust me. She thinks I'm going to become some violent criminal. Uncle Sherlock treats me like an experiment sometimes and thinks I don't notice. It just pisses me off so much. That teacher. Mum tip toeing around. Sherlock being the great fuck-all Sherlock Holmes with all the books about him. Dad being dead. Father acting all superior but he's nothing but a screw up anyway. It pissed me off, and when I get too mad, I just want to take it out on everyone. Like I took it out on that teacher." He did look at her then, as if remembering she was there and he wasn't just talking to himself. "So do you still think I seem like a nice guy?"


	4. Chapter 4

**Eulogy Author's Update: **

Hello Constant Readers. After much debate, I have decided to place this story officially on hiatus. As you know from my story comments, I had a lot of trouble getting through Aerials and was not happy with how it turned out. You guys deserved a better story and I don't want that to happen again. While I love my Dearest verse stories, I am just not finding any inspiration for Eulogy and it is showing in the writing. So rather than leave everyone in suspense and frustration, I wanted to let anyone following the story know what was going on.

Right now, I plan on picking Eulogy back up after taking a break and perhaps writing other things. Most likely, I will rework it entirely, keeping the same basic story but starting over 100% on the text. Thank you everyone for sticking with it until then.

Until then,

_Let us sit upon the ground and tell sad stories of the death of kings._

_ (Richard II, Act III Scene II)_

_**~hrlyqin**_


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